


We Have to Stop Meeting Like This

by goldenheadfreckledheart



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - College/University, College Parties, F/M, Fluff, background Minty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 10:17:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4344671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenheadfreckledheart/pseuds/goldenheadfreckledheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tumblr prompt: “We both have friends who party too hard and we keep running into each other in the bathroom while we hold their hair back.” </p><p>Aka, the three times Bellamy and Clarke meet each other while taking care of their friends + the one time they don’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Have to Stop Meeting Like This

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up a lot longer and messier than I expected. All mistakes are mine.

The first time Bellamy meets Clarke, he’s the kind of annoyed that only comes from being worried sick about Octavia.

His beloved sister, who he adores most days, is currently making horrible retching sounds into the toilet while he holds her hair back from her face. He’s glad she called him—a conversation that consisted of “Bell, I don’t feel so good,” and some cross between a hiccup and a laugh—but he’s losing his battle with annoyance, and fast, because this is the  _third damn time this quarter._

Nothing he says right now is going to stick though, so he stews his annoyance in silence.

Unsurprisingly, he’s not exactly pleasant when two girls burst into the tiny bathroom.

“Find somewhere else to pee,” he says gruffly, nodding to where his sister is hunched over.

“Seeing as pee is not the problem I’m gonna need you to move over,” one of them snaps. She’s blonde, and clearly not fucking around if the fire in her eyes is any indication.

Before he can protest, she’s nudging his knees with her shoes while her friend drops down next to Octavia—and proceeds to throw up almost immediately.

“Jesus, Raven,” the blonde says, surging forward to pull back the other girl’s dark ponytail back from where it’s hanging dangerously close to her face.

Bellamy’s about to yell at them to  _fucking find someplace else to throw up, jesus_ , when the blonde turns to him again, her face exuding exhaustion.

“Sorry,” she says shortly, “This is the only bathroom and I figured it was better than the floor.”

He shrugs and nods after a second, because, okay yeah, he get’s it.

She nods back and they sit there in silence—minus the pounding music of the house party from behind the door.

After few minutes, she pipes up again and he considers being annoyed but he figures at least it’s a distraction from the pathetic sight in front of them.

“Bad break-up,” she says, inclining her head toward her friend.

He grunts in understanding. “That’s rough.”

“Yeah. Yours? I’m assuming not a breakup considering you’re still here.”

He squints at her in confusion—coincidentally trying not to notice how pretty she is—and catches her meaning after a second, “Oh, no. This is my sister. But also not a break up. More like going too hard freshman year.”

She laughs, low and quiet, and it’s a nice sound, “Yeah, I remember those days,” she pauses to lean down and rub her friend’s shoulders—Raven, he thinks her name was.

“You’re not a freshman then?” he asks, carding his hands absentmindedly through Octavia’s hair.

“Nah, Junior. Pre-med neuroscience.” He raises his eyebrows and she’s talking again before he can say anything, ticking off phrases like she’s said them a million times, “Yes, it’s a pain in my ass. No, I’m not a masochist. Yes, I miss getting a full night’s sleep. And no, I’m not really down for a quick one night stand since I’m too busy to get laid regularly.”

He’s trying not to laugh, which must be some kind of miracle considering how pissed he was about five minutes ago.

“Sorry,” she says quietly after a second, voice strained and one hand over her eyes. “You didn’t deserve that. I’m just really done with getting those questions, you know?”

He looks at her with baffled amusement, “How often do you get propositions for one night stands?”

“You’d be surprised.”

He barks a laugh and she smiles wryly.

“Anyway, what about you?”

“Huh?” he’s still kind of stuck on the one night stand thing.

“Major? Year?”

“Oh. History. Senior.”

He thinks she’s just about to say something in response when her friend tugs on her sleeve.

“Can we go home now?” she slurs, clumsily lacing her fingers with hers.

“Sure, Rae.” Her voice is half patronizing, half fond as she helps her friend up. “That’s my cue,” she says to him, flashing a stunning grin, “Catch you later I guess…?”

“Bellamy,” he supplies.

“Clarke,” she calls over her shoulder as they stumble out of the bathroom.

He realizes he’s staring after her a bit when Octavia says, in a slurred voice far too chipper for someone who’s just expelled the contents of their stomach, “She sounded cute, did you you get her number?”

* * *

The second time he meets her it’s at ArkFall, the pretentious new club downtown, and it’s in a bathroom. Again.

He’s in the men’s room with Miller, who’s spilling his guts—non-metaphorically—after downing one too many shots trying to impress a guy across the bar.

They’re alone in the somewhat disgusting bathroom, and there’s only so many times he can tell Miller how pathetic his is.

He’s just lapsed into silence again when the door is pushed open and a wavering, but determined voice rings out, “Girls incoming! Gotta puke, cover your junk!”

The owner of the voice, a tiny girl with brown hair twisted into intimidating braids around her head, barrels through the door and into the nearest stall, leaving Bellamy wide eyed and a little confused, where he’s standing by the sinks.

“Damn, Monroe,” he hears a second voice behind the door, as it creaks open again, “But yeah, actually. Cover your junk.”

He’s just thinking that the voice seems familiar when he sees her blonde head peek around the door, one hand covering her eyes, fingers parted to look through.

“Oh,” she says when she recognizes him, dropping her hand from her face, “Fancy seeing you here.”

Off the confused look that hasn’t left his face for a few seconds, she continues, “Right. Yeah. Explanation: The ladies room has a line a mile long and the men’s is empty. And Monroe needed to puke. Obvious solution.”

She comes to lean against the row of sinks and he joins her, leaving Miller to his solitude in the stall.

He’s not really sure how they’ve managed to be in this situation again, but he’s more than a little glad to see her.

“Do you do this often?” he asks, laughter in his voice, and she cocks her head at him. She’s wearing a lot more makeup than last time and it makes her look gorgeous and terrifying. “I don’t mean that as a pick-up line, by the way. I’m legitimately curious if you make a habit of accompanying your inebriated friends to the bathroom.”

She laughs at that, head tilted up and hair spilling down her back, “No, not really. But I kind of bring it on myself since I’m usually the only one who can’t afford to be hungover the next morning.”

“Why’s that?”

“Volunteer shifts at the hospital,” she responds grimly. “Gotta get those rec letters somehow.”

He lets out a low whistle. “Rough.” After a second, he inclines his head toward Monroe’s stall, “You’re on hair holding duty right? Shouldn’t you be, you know, holding her hair?”

She waves a dismissive hand, “Nah, Monroe’s a hold-her-own-hair kind of girl. I’m just here to make sure she doesn’t pass out in her own puke. You good Monroe?” she calls.

An affirmative cross between a moan and a groan returns from Monroe’s general direction and she gives him a pointed look.  _See?_

“What about you?” she asks, “Although I guess it’s gotta be a guy in there, considering you didn’t have to run in here yelling ‘cover your junk.’” She considers, “Unless I missed that part.”

“Nope. That’s Miller: male, and no need for hair holding services.”

“Wait, Miller? As in the guy Monty was shameless flirting with an hour ago?” she turns toward him, face twisting in delight.

The name seem vaguely familiar, “Oh, yeah I guess so. You know Monty?”

“Yep,” she grins, “and he’s ridiculously far gone for Miller. Pretty sure he came tonight just to see him, FYI.”

He’s suddenly thinking that maybe Monty has the right idea because he’s already planning on returning to this club, knowing that she comes here.

“Got it. Maybe I’ll let him know.”

She hums, hoisting herself up onto the counter, kicking her stiletto clad feet out in front of her, “You probably should. Do them both a favor.”

They’re barely silent for a second when Monroe steps out of the stall, still looking a little unsteady on her feet.

“I think I’m good now, Clarke,” she says, swaying a little, “You ready?”

Clarke laughs, jumping off the counter and rushing over to steady her friend, “Yep, let’s go. Bye Bellamy!”

She traipses out the door like she barges into men’s bathrooms every day, and he wonders what ungodly reason has kept him from asking for her number.

* * *

The third time, it’s at a  _movie theater_ for god sake, and he’s happy to see her, but, really,  _how many damn times can this happen_? He’s out with Octavia, watching a movie he doesn’t particularly want to see and he’s conveniently drained a giant cup of soda, so he excuses himself halfway through.

She’s standing outside the family restroom when he sees her, and he doesn’t even bother holding back his laughter, “We have  _got_  to stop meeting like this.”

She’s dressed down in jeans and a tank top, hair curling over her shoulders and he’s trying not to be superficial, but it’s the best look he’s seen on her so far. (He realizes belatedly that he probably just likes how she looks  _always._ )

When she turns to him, he swears her face lights up and he tries not to feel really damn good about it.

“Hey stranger. This is getting kind of ridiculous.”

“You’re telling me,” he says, leaning against the wall beside her, “Who’s throwing up today?”

She scrunches her nose at him, “No one, actually. Maya’s in there, fixing her makeup after bawling her eyes out at Mad Max.”

He can’t pretend not to find that strange, “Mad Max?”

“It gets pretty heart wrenching in there for a second. Besides, Maya cries in most movies. It’s great.”

She looks for all the world that she actually finds her friend’s ability to cry in movies to be an asset, so he decides to go with it.

“Oh hey,” she says, snapping her fingers, “I forgot to ask the other day; I withhold alcohol from myself so I’m not hungover at the hospital, what’s your excuse?”

“Side effect of basically raising Octavia,” he responds easily. He could play it off, but he finds himself wanting to be honest with her, “It still somehow doesn’t feel right making stupid decisions when something could come up, you know?”

“I’m no expert, but there’s gotta be a deep story beneath that.”

He sighs heavily. Not because he doesn’t want to tell her—because he kind of does, which is crazy in itself—but he’s not sure he’s up to it just yet.

So instead he says something stupid and smarmy and kind of hates himself for it, “I could tell you another time if you give me your number?” He manages to make it sound like a question and pretends like it’s enough to not make him sound like a douchebag.

Apparently he does okay because she grins wickedly and snatches his phone, holding it up and scrunching her face—it’s unfairly adorable—before snapping a picture of herself and tapping in her number.

He extends a hand to take it back, but she holds up a finger, “Hold up, I’m texting myself.”

A second later, he hears her phone vibrate from her pocket and she slides it out as she hands his back.

“Smile!” she says, holding her phone up. He gives her his widest grin, and swears he hears her mumbling something like, “so unfair…” as she adds him to her contacts.

They reluctantly part ways when her friend appears a few minutes later and he walks back to his movie with a near constant smile on his face.

He doesn’t even mind when Octavia glares daggers at him for slipping back into the theater nearly fifteen minutes after he left.

* * *

+1

She texts him two days later.

_There’s a party at Jaz and Monty’s place again. I’m gonna be the only one sober. Wanna come?_

He responds in the affirmative. Obviously.

He finds her at the party that night–looking fucking amazing, as usual–and she introduces him to her friends, a fair few who he’s already met, in various bathrooms. They manage to catch Miller, who Bellamy insisted come along, making out with Monty in the corner at one point. They exchange obnoxious high-fives and he’s half in love with her already.

Eventually, he throws caution to the wind and asks her to dance. And feels pretty damn good when she doesn’t respond verbally, just grabs his hand and pulls him toward the crowd.

They’ve been dancing for nearly an hour when she leans up to speak lowly into his ear, her hands on his shoulders for support.

“You want to get out of here?”

He grins down at her, tries not to make it obvious that his heart is beating out of his chest, “You’re not foreseeing any vomit related emergencies tonight?”

She shrugs, “I figure they can handle it themselves, just this once.”

He agrees, but he might be biased, “Then yes, I really do.”

“Good.”

She surges even closer to him for a fleeting second and presses her lips to his. It’s over before he can reciprocate and then she’s pulling him toward the door.

“What was that?” he calls over the music, not bothering to hide his shit-eating grin.

She looks back at him over her shoulder, matching smile on her face, and gives a half shrug. “I’ve been being responsible for, like, the last three weeks straight. I like you,” she says it like it’s obvious, “and I’m pretty sure you like me, so why the hell not?”

He doesn’t respond to that, just follows her to the door, his hand in hers.

The second they’re outside, he untangles their fingers. When she turns back in confusion, he catches her face in his hands and brings his lips down to hers. Because fair is fair.

She sighs into it after a second, and he can feel a smile twisting at her lips as she reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair.

“C’mon,” she says, pulling back from him after a good couple minutes, “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out with me on [tumblr](http://www.goldenheadfreckledheart.tumblr.com) if you'd like! :)


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